‘Not for the people, but the industry'

Published: Thursday, September 23, 2010 at 11:37 a.m.

Last Modified: Friday, October 1, 2010 at 11:10 p.m.

About two weeks after Hurricane Ike flooded lower Terrebonne in 2008, I was in Grand Bois, standing in Clarice Friloux's yard off the Bourg-Larose Highway.

For years, Friloux and her relatives and neighbors in the tiny American Indian community that straddles Terrebonne and Lafourche had battled an oilfield waste pit that brings acrid air and, residents say, other forms of contamination.

The U.S. Liquids site is a destination for drilling mud and other forms of oilfield waste that can't be dumped out in the Gulf. So instead it gets brought to Grand Bois to be slung into the air, spread out in huge piles and flushed of salt water.

After Ike, Friloux and others complained of an oily sheen and dark slicks on the storm water that flooded yards and ditches.

Called out to investigate, the state Department of Environmental Quality said the odd discoloration was the result of “decaying plant matter.” The company also said there was no evidence of any contaminated runoff from the waste pits and that the levees that surrounded the place weren't overtopped. Friloux took no solace in either pronouncement.

“I have no confidence at all in the Department of Environmental Quality,” Friloux said. “They've proven to us over and over in the years that they work for the industry. Not for the people, but the industry.”

I thought of Clarice and Grand Bois when we reported this week on another set of neighbors trying to get the DEQ to help with an oilfield site. It's an ES&H facility in Village East that processes bilge water and water used to cleanse oil tanks.

The state found the project would not release enough pollutants to require an air-quality permit. According to the permit application for the waste-treatment system the company uses, “odors are eliminated by the virtue of the self-cleaning, recirculating features of the system.” Of course, that's not what people who live there say. “It comes all through the house,” said Camille Fry, 50, who has lived in the neighborhood for more than a decade. “You can't enjoy the outside. You can't enjoy the inside.”

The DEQ says the company was found to have released untreated wastewater into a drainage ditch, though it wouldn't tell us how much was released, how long the problem was going on or whether the company would be fined. A DEQ spokesman, Rodney Mallett, however, assured us the company had addressed the problem. He added the agency would look into additional reports of foul smells from the site.

The DEQ is quick to send out news releases about guys who get arrested for dumping tires or illegally disposing of cooking grease, but trying to get information out of the agency about potential corporate polluters, especially in the oil-and-gas industry, isn't so easy.

Then again, in Louisiana — where many types of oilfield waste aren't recognized as hazardous by the state, even though they can contain known carcinogens like benzene and toxins like lead, arsenic and barium — maybe you can't expect too much from the DEQ.

You'd think, perhaps with the nation's worst-ever oil spill unleashed in our backyards, some might reconsider the state's enthrallment with an industry that, while providing enormous financial benefits, cut canals through coastal marshes that hastened saltwater intrusion, lined the Mississippi with enough petrochemical plants and refineries to earn it the nickname “Cancer Alley” and wrangled land and drilling rights from trusting and often undereducated locals. There's also the miles of pipeline and the hulks of rusting machinery in formerly pristine marshlands that no one, until fairly recently, felt they had to clean up, as we reported this month.

Yet all we hear from local leaders are stubborn indictments of the federal government's deepwater-drilling ban and new regulations — snarling calls for the administration to get out of the way and let the industry get back to work.

I know that many jobs in south Louisiana, including mine, depend in one way or another on the oil-and-gas industry, and I won't attempt to detract from the strides drilling and production companies have made in safety and environmental responsibility since the virtually lawless early days of the oilfield.

But if now isn't the time to have an open debate about the stranglehold this industry has on public policy in this state in the wake of an oil disaster that may affect Louisiana for decades to come, there may never be another moment.

Oliver Houck, a professor of environmental law at Tulane University, doesn't see that discussion happening, as he told the Los Angeles Times in a story published last week.

“We are going to drill as rapaciously as we possibly can,” he said. “We will drill to the last drop. We will resist environmental and safety safeguards with the same vigor that we have resisted them in the past. I don't think it will end until the oil plays out. And we are going to be the last place in America to get the word.”

In the same article, Clarice Friloux is again telling a reporter the story of Grand Bois.

“What I found out is that people are scared,” she said. “Oil-and-gas companies run Louisiana. Our politicians get their pockets lined. Sixty miles south of Bourbon Street, and this is what's going on. No one would believe you.”

Here's what Friloux told me two years ago:

“Seems like a waste of time sometimes. Well, most of the time,” she said. “Honestly what's going to happen, you're going to write the article, people are going to talk about it, then next month, nothing. People are going to sympathize with me. But there's no help coming my way.”

At the time, I couldn't believe her. Now, I'm not so certain.

City Editor Robert Zullo can be reached at 448-7614 or robert.zullo@houmatoday.com.

<p>About two weeks after Hurricane Ike flooded lower Terrebonne in 2008, I was in Grand Bois, standing in Clarice Friloux's yard off the Bourg-Larose Highway.</p><p>For years, Friloux and her relatives and neighbors in the tiny American Indian community that straddles Terrebonne and Lafourche had battled an oilfield waste pit that brings acrid air and, residents say, other forms of contamination. </p><p>The U.S. Liquids site is a destination for drilling mud and other forms of oilfield waste that can't be dumped out in the Gulf. So instead it gets brought to Grand Bois to be slung into the air, spread out in huge piles and flushed of salt water.</p><p>After Ike, Friloux and others complained of an oily sheen and dark slicks on the storm water that flooded yards and ditches. </p><p>Called out to investigate, the state Department of Environmental Quality said the odd discoloration was the result of “decaying plant matter.” The company also said there was no evidence of any contaminated runoff from the waste pits and that the levees that surrounded the place weren't overtopped. Friloux took no solace in either pronouncement. </p><p>“I have no confidence at all in the Department of Environmental Quality,” Friloux said. “They've proven to us over and over in the years that they work for the industry. Not for the people, but the industry.”</p><p>I thought of Clarice and Grand Bois when we reported this week on another set of neighbors trying to get the DEQ to help with an oilfield site. It's an ES&H facility in Village East that processes bilge water and water used to cleanse oil tanks. </p><p>The state found the project would not release enough pollutants to require an air-quality permit. According to the permit application for the waste-treatment system the company uses, “odors are eliminated by the virtue of the self-cleaning, recirculating features of the system.” Of course, that's not what people who live there say. “It comes all through the house,” said Camille Fry, 50, who has lived in the neighborhood for more than a decade. “You can't enjoy the outside. You can't enjoy the inside.”</p><p>The DEQ says the company was found to have released untreated wastewater into a drainage ditch, though it wouldn't tell us how much was released, how long the problem was going on or whether the company would be fined. A DEQ spokesman, Rodney Mallett, however, assured us the company had addressed the problem. He added the agency would look into additional reports of foul smells from the site. </p><p>The DEQ is quick to send out news releases about guys who get arrested for dumping tires or illegally disposing of cooking grease, but trying to get information out of the agency about potential corporate polluters, especially in the oil-and-gas industry, isn't so easy. </p><p>Then again, in Louisiana — where many types of oilfield waste aren't recognized as hazardous by the state, even though they can contain known carcinogens like benzene and toxins like lead, arsenic and barium — maybe you can't expect too much from the DEQ. </p><p>You'd think, perhaps with the nation's worst-ever oil spill unleashed in our backyards, some might reconsider the state's enthrallment with an industry that, while providing enormous financial benefits, cut canals through coastal marshes that hastened saltwater intrusion, lined the Mississippi with enough petrochemical plants and refineries to earn it the nickname “Cancer Alley” and wrangled land and drilling rights from trusting and often undereducated locals. There's also the miles of pipeline and the hulks of rusting machinery in formerly pristine marshlands that no one, until fairly recently, felt they had to clean up, as we reported this month. </p><p>Yet all we hear from local leaders are stubborn indictments of the federal government's deepwater-drilling ban and new regulations — snarling calls for the administration to get out of the way and let the industry get back to work. </p><p>I know that many jobs in south Louisiana, including mine, depend in one way or another on the oil-and-gas industry, and I won't attempt to detract from the strides drilling and production companies have made in safety and environmental responsibility since the virtually lawless early days of the oilfield.</p><p>But if now isn't the time to have an open debate about the stranglehold this industry has on public policy in this state in the wake of an oil disaster that may affect Louisiana for decades to come, there may never be another moment. </p><p>Oliver Houck, a professor of environmental law at Tulane University, doesn't see that discussion happening, as he told the Los Angeles Times in a story published last week.</p><p>“We are going to drill as rapaciously as we possibly can,” he said. “We will drill to the last drop. We will resist environmental and safety safeguards with the same vigor that we have resisted them in the past. I don't think it will end until the oil plays out. And we are going to be the last place in America to get the word.”</p><p>In the same article, Clarice Friloux is again telling a reporter the story of Grand Bois.</p><p>“What I found out is that people are scared,” she said. “Oil-and-gas companies run Louisiana. Our politicians get their pockets lined. Sixty miles south of Bourbon Street, and this is what's going on. No one would believe you.”</p><p>Here's what Friloux told me two years ago:</p><p>“Seems like a waste of time sometimes. Well, most of the time,” she said. “Honestly what's going to happen, you're going to write the article, people are going to talk about it, then next month, nothing. People are going to sympathize with me. But there's no help coming my way.”</p><p>At the time, I couldn't believe her. Now, I'm not so certain.</p><p>City Editor Robert Zullo can be reached at 448-7614 or robert.zullo@houmatoday.com.</p>